All the King's Men
by unrelated thing
Summary: Nick sees Greg falling apart, but can't help him. Mid season 6, Nick Greg slash. Companion piece to "All the King's Horses."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I realized, when I started writing "All the King's Horses," that I would really like to write a companion piece to go along with it. So this is it: Nick's story. Chapters to be posted simultaneously. I'll try to update twice a week, but expect at least once a week. In case you missed it, this takes place in season six, splitting off from canon there. Expect mild spoilers for all previous seasons.

**Warnings:** Slash. Angst.

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to CBS and Bruckheimer Productions, not me.

**All the King's Men  
**1.

His letter says it doesn't have anything to do with me. Fuck, he even _apologizes_ to me, and if anything I should be the one apologizing to him.

He's my Greggo, my bit of sunlight in human form, and I thought I knew him but if I did this wouldn't have happened.

If I'm honest, and I do try to be, I should tell you that he's not _my_ Greggo. Not anymore. Hasn't been for two months and seventeen days. After over two years of sleeping next to him, suddenly all we talk about is work, and I don't see him if we don't have a case together and I think that maybe he's avoiding me until today…

It's not like I have nightmares when he's not here. Our schedules wouldn't work out all the time, we've slept apart, and besides that I'm in therapy.

What? Real men can too go to therapy. I'd like to see you deal with being buried alive and eaten by ants without it.

And here he is, and everything's just so _fucked_ now and he wrote me a letter telling me that it has nothing to do with me, and that just makes me so angry I can barely see straight! Nothing to do with me, sure, like I believe that. We've got a good two and a half _years _history, if you count the last two months and seventeen days (which I do). Longer than that, if you count the friendship and flirtation leading up to it. And when he was mine, and I was his, things were _good._ Yeah, we had our little bumps and tussles along the way, but no matter what we always came through it because we were _us_ and we faced things together. And his stupid letter just pisses all over that history, just "Sorry, Nicky, what we had doesn't matter."

I know I shouldn't be pissed about this, but I'd feel better if it _were_ about me, and isn't that just the most twisted and selfish thing you've ever heard? Oh, yeah, my therapist is going to get a few sessions out of this.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I hope this format works for people. I'm trying to write these stories so that they could be read separately, but still intertwining, if that makes sense. Also, trying to make sure the same information is given in each story, but in a separate and interesting way.

Thanks to happyharper13 and Blatantly Jennifer for the reviews!

**Warnings:** Slash. Angst.

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to CBS and Bruckheimer Productions, not me.

**All the King's Men  
**2.

Is it weird that this was the first day I was ever mad at him? I've been mad at the situation, mad at the job, mad at the world that kept pressing down on him until he couldn't bear the weight anymore, but I wasn't mad at _him_ until he gave up. I was okay with waiting around for him to realize that he didn't have to go through everything alone, and I was okay with waiting for him to ask for help, and I was even okay with it if he asked someone _else_ for help, because I knew he'd come back to me.

But I guess I didn't know anything at all.

And I'm feeling all that anger that my therapist has been trying to get me to talk about, but I couldn't talk about it before it was there, right? It feels like I've been pissed all day, and I hate that I'm blaming him but it's really his fault!

It started when I tried to talk to him in the locker room. Just talk, and not even about anything important, even though he had that blank look that he's been trying to hide lately. And he gave up trying, I guess.

All I said was, "Hey, G, wanna come over? Watch a movie or something?"

And he looked at me and I knew, I _knew_ that he was going to say yes. He was finally going to let me back in; finally start working towards being the old Greg, or at least not the shell that's been wandering the halls of the crime lab lately. And then something flickered in his eyes, and it all fell apart.

"I'm sorry, Nicky. I don't think I'll ever be me again. Or maybe 'me' is just someone very different than I used to be. I'm not going be ready for you. I'm sorry. You should find someone else, move on. We both have to move on."

I just stood there, while he shot me straight through the heart, and I watched him walk away from me, from _us,_ and I didn't stop him. If I had, maybe it'd be different now. I should have stopped him, should have grabbed him and held him and not let him go, and I'm mad at him for what he said but I'm really more mad at myself for not seeing what was happening. I should have stopped him, but instead I just stood there for I don't even know how long, until Gris walked by and saw me.

You know, I don't think he's even noticed the tension between me and Greg. Our working relationship is just fine; I think we might even be more efficient working together because Greg's trying to spend as little time as possible with me. So of course his conclusion, on seeing me standing there, was that I was having some sort of "recently buried alive" freak-out episode. Told me to go home, call my therapist, and get some rest. And he asked if he should call Greg to take care of me.

I couldn't explain to him that Greg wouldn't be there, that Greg was the reason I was… well, breaking down in the locker room, I guess. So I just thanked him, and headed home.

Is it weird that I still keep Greg's drawers in the dresser empty? Ready and waiting for him to come back and fill them with crazy boxers and t-shirts and socks and jeans. There's still space for all his stuff in the closet, still room on the shelves for his books and CDs, and most of the bathroom counter's empty and waiting for his clutter to come back.

I slept some, a few hours. My phone ringing woke me up. There really wasn't anyone who should be calling me then, unless I was getting called in to work early. Which wouldn't make sense, since Gris thought I was in the middle of a freak-out. Anyone else would know I was sleeping. So, dammit, that meant I had to answer.

"Stokes. This better be important."

"Nick, it's Sara. You need to come to the hospital. Desert Palms."

"Hospital? What—"

"It's Greg."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks to QueenOfTheUniverse for reviewing!

**Warnings:** Slash. Angst.

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to CBS and Bruckheimer Productions, not me.

**All the King's Men  
**3.

I can't remember much of what happened after Sara called me. Just… flashes, you know? My therapist says not to worry, it's pretty normal to feel disconnected after a big emotional shock. I don't know, maybe it's better I don't remember everything. I might go really insane then.

I remember images, and flashes of sound, but what takes up most of my headspace is seeing Greggo lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines, and listening to the doctor telling me that if he made it through the next twenty-four hours he'd be okay. And all I could think was that nothing would be okay, I should have seen this coming, should have stopped it somehow, and _dammit, Greg!_

How could he do this to me? Doesn't he know that the only thing I really couldn't bear is… well, this? Him, dying. God, he's such an _idiot_ sometimes and whoa… there's that anger again.

Yeah, my therapist says that's normal, too.

What do I remember? Well…

A brief flash—Sara telling me how she found him.

"He called me, and he sounded so _weird,_ Nick. Not like himself, just kind of flat. And he said he was sorry for leaving like this, and then he hung up and wouldn't answer when I tried to call him back…"

An image—Sara sitting in the waiting room as I ran blindly in, arms wrapped around herself and tears on her face with Grissom beside her, holding her comfortingly.

"He was in the bathroom—he had this in his hand," as she handed me a letter. It was a copy—Grissom told me the original had been sent back to the lab.

Grissom, telling me that Catherine and Warrick were processing his apartment. And initial analysis said Greg had been upset, but not under duress, when he wrote the letter to me.

Mostly, I remember the pitying looks. They'd all read what Greg had written to me, all seen the shreds of what we'd had hanging tattered in his words. And maybe I imagined it, _probably_ I imagined it, but I think I saw an accusation in their eyes, like I should have stopped this, and I wanted to scream at them that I _know_ I should have, but he stopped letting me know him months ago.

I know I worried them, not saying anything, but all I wanted to do was go sit with Greg. So that's what I did. I held his hand, watched him sleep off the drugs and alcohol, and prayed that he'd keep breathing.

He crashed twice that night, but he was still breathing at dawn.

_Interlude—Greg's Apartment_

"You know what's really weird to me?"

"Gee, I don't know, Warrick. Could it possibly be the fact that Greg tried to _kill_ himself today?"

"Nah, that's not it. It's just… We've got sleeping pills, and vodka, right?"

Catherine sighed, deciding to go along with Warrick. "Right. Suicide cocktail."

"Yeah, but the sleeping pills are really old—from right after the lab explosion. And I'm not sure he really had that many left. Also, the vodka is left over from when Archie and me helped Greg move in here." He squinted at the bottle. "I brought it, as an apartment-warming gift. Greg and Arch must've drunk at least half of it that day."

"So what's your point? If Sara hadn't gotten here when she did, he still would have died."

"Maybe not. The vomit in the bathroom… He would have been on his side to make a puddle like that. And Greg's kind of a genius, do you really think he'd forget an anti-nausea—"

A phone ringing cut him off. The two CSIs sat in silence, waiting for the machine to pick up. The outgoing message was strange and subdued, just another reminder of how Greg had changed in the past year.

"_Hey, you've reached Greg. I'm either sleeping or working, so leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can."_

After the tone, a slightly anxious female voice came on the line. _"Greg, honey, I'm at the airport, but they said you didn't get on the flight. I wish you would've called if you were delayed. You know how I worry. Are you still coming out? _Call me_, as soon as you get this. Oh, and Papa Olaf sends his love."_

Warrick and Catherine turned to look at each other. Finally, Catherine voiced the thought in both their minds:

"What the hell is going on?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Apologies for the delay in getting this out.

Just a brief reminder, each chapter in this story does have a corresponding chapter in "All the King's Horses." Chapters are written for that story first, and meant to be read here first, although you should be able to enjoy each story as a stand-alone if you like. Oh, and just thought I'd say… Greg really had more to say this round, so… check his story out.

Thanks to QueenOfTheUniverse, cjmjane, and Blatantly Jennifer for reviewing!

**Warnings:** Slash. Angst.

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to CBS and Bruckheimer Productions, not me.

**All the King's Men  
**4.

Catherine and Warrick are hovering outside his room. I never really thought about how good it is, having the nurses running interference. I can't deal with hearing about whatever they found at Greg's apartment. I don't want to know what the scene looked like; listening to Sara when she told me about finding him like _that_ was more than enough.

I mean, think about it: I deal with death every day. I see every disgusting, intimate, filthy detail that goes with all the flavors of suicide. Why would I want to hear about Greg's? I couldn't handle that, not while I'm waiting for him to wake up. Waiting to see if he will.

I've cried more in the past day than I have in the past decade, but I think that's pretty reasonable. I'm being a bit flippant, I know… it's a habit I picked up from Greg. A bad habit, my therapist says—apparently, it's just a way to avoid dealing with my emotions. And I guess she's right, but really, if I were perfect I wouldn't be in therapy anymore.

I keep talking to him, like he can hear me, and a part of me is sure that he can, sure that he sees everything here and if I just keep talking long enough, he'll see that he has to come back. I'm not even sure what I'm saying anymore, but I think that maybe the words don't matter so much. He just needs to know I'm here for him, or maybe I just need him to know that…

Huh. How selfish is that? But I think, right now, it's okay, because what I need _fits_ with what he needs. I think. I'm not even sure.

God, please, I just need him to wake up, and tell me what he needs! It's all such a mess.

And I keep hearing him say my name, and it makes it so much _harder,_ because I keep thinking he's woken up but then he hasn't, he's still out, and the crash when he's still gone is harder every time.

I hear him say my name again, whispered like he used to when things were good and he wanted to know if I was sleeping, and even if I was I'd wake up with him. It's so familiar, and if I'm just imagining it again I don't think I can take it—

This time, it's different. His hand tightens on mine, and I _know_ I'm not imagining that. And when I look at his face, his eyes are open, and thank you, God, he _sees_ me. Somewhere in my life, I must have done something truly wonderful, because he sees me, and his eyes are so different and alive and _Greg's there, _he's back, and there's only a little of the stranger from the past few months there.

There's so much to say, for him, for me, and I don't know where to start, and he looks as tired as I feel, but that's okay, because he woke up and he saw me and the sun's back. We're going to be fine.

He asks me to stay, and I'm not sure if he even hears my answer before he sleeps again—a beautiful, peaceful, wake-up-in-the-morning, _normal_ sleep—and I'll be damned if I leave him after that, no matter how much Catherine waves from the other side of the window in the door.

And Greg's okay, he's going to be fine, so I can appreciate how incredibly silly Warrick looks bouncing up and down behind her.


End file.
